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Why do bells for Christmas ring’ Why do little children sing? Once a lovely shining star Seen by shepherds from afar Gently moved until its light Made a manger’s cradle bright. There a darling baby lay Pillowed soft upon the hay. And its mother sang and smiled. “This is Christ, the holy child." Therefore bells for Christmas ring; Therefore little children sing. —Eugene Field. A Holiday Acquaintancship The traveler in those swift trains which thunder night and day on that great artery of trade skirting the eastern coast of Great Britain finds himeslf carried for many miles within sight of the North sea. The air is keen with the fresh smell of the sea, and beyond the long, clean line of the “seabraes” lies the long, stretch of luminous water, reflecting in its changeful coloring the change ful sky above —sometimes aflare with sunrise and sunset, or glittering, a broken .dazzle of innumerable sun smiles—now grey and sullen under rack of wind-harried cloud, or again lost in a vast silence of impenetrable mist. Only here and there is any intima tion of the life that fringes the sea— whea-e at some sudden little bay framed in the dark red rock, which the short, fine turf splashes with con trasted green, and where seems scarce a foothold between cliff and tide, a place has been found for a little, ir regular group of tiny houses, and a safe beach for a boat. The cottages hang there, looking like swallows' nests, seemingly exposed to destruc tion, yet the humble and modest refuge of hazardous toil, and venturing even to adorn themselves with tiny patches of garden ground, where flourish such plants as can brave the saline breeze with its sprinkling dash of briny spray. Just beyond the little station of Bummouth is a glimpse of such a small cluster of dwellings—part of the scattered colony of fishermen who inhabit the coast. They are a re markable race, these fisher-folk, and distinct in physique, in feature, and :'n temperament from the landward Low landers even as the rugged head lands and broken bays where they dwell differ from the gently-swelling, •well-watered, and richly cultivated fields of the Merse. It was merely this chance glimpse of the little hamlet that induced Wilfrid Neuthorn to break his journey northward at that place. To some minds the predetermined is unatrac tive; the momentary suggestion of im pulse offers all the charm of the un known. Wilfrid had been ordered off for a holiday, which he had planned to spend at North Berwick. He said to himself as he sauntered down the little platform that his original destination was within -reach if this unfamiliar neighborhood should prove unsatisfactory. An inquiry of an official regarding the important question of lodgings elicited a headshake. “I dinna ken; there's no a great deal o' accommodation here, and I’m thinkin' what there is will be a’ ta'en up. But ye wad get rooms either in Ayton or Eyemouth, nae aoot. There’s a very dacent woman in Eye mouth, a cousin o’ my ain wife's, has rooms to let; and if they dinna suit ye might hear o’ some at the pustoffice.” "Well, you can send down my traps with the train. I'll walk over there myself, and see what I can spot,” said Wilfrid. As he climbed the steep stair of the sunken station the sun glittered on something at his feet, bright amongst the cinders of the path. He stooped and picked from the ground a couple of small pendants, apparently detach ed from watchchain or bracelet, if one might judge by the fragment of a broken ring still remaining—a crook ed sixpence, worn smooth with age, and a small goldplated heart. A faint ironic smile flitted across His features as he turned the trifles ■over in his hand. “Well, if omens count for anything, i ought to be in luck," he said. “The symbols of money and true love —the two commodities of which I stand most in need! Or is it to be taken to mean that having lost the genuine articles I am only to have the symbols? After all, this is not really mine—l can leave it at the postoffice so that it can be restored to the lawful owner.” He slipped the treasure trove into hUs waistcoat pocket, and set his face seaward. It was a lovely evening, \ radiant, calm, and pure. In the shorn fields the harvest stacks were ranked evenly, but as yet frost had not marred the summer glory of the trees nor reddened the brambles In the hedges. A cool air refreshed the earth after the sultry heat of the day, a BOft, faintly-purpled mist zoned the eastern sky. By the time he had reached the bridge under which the wearied Eye flows down a lazy, dark creep of water between blistering boats to the harbor It was the gloamln' hour, and the stars began to emerge In the Infinite zenith. Wilfrid sauntered at leisure down the irregular streets. As he stopped with a townsman's interest to read a bBl In a newsagent’s window a girl came from the shop. She aim os; collided with him as be turned away, and as the word Of conventional Here the children may find not only jc.lly Kris Kringle, but his deer and sleigh, a Christmas tree and turkey, a bad little boy who was skipped by St. Nick, a good little boy and his sweet little sister and some of the many toys they received. apology passed between them Wilfrid had an impression of grey eyes, shin ing like stars in a delicate little face, framed in soft, golden hair. The girl was dressed in gray from head to foot, even to the gray gloves and the tiny, round felt hat. A faint waft of per fume floated from the tiny bunch of heliotrope pinned on the lapel of her coat, well according with the sugges tion of daintiness and sweetness in her face. Wilfrid could not resist the tempta tion to look after this exquisite fleet ing vision. As she vanished down one of the elusive side streets which honeycomb the old smuggling town he turned regretfullv away. But he had rto longer any doubts as to the wisdom of spending his holiday at Eyemouth. CHAPTER 11. “She’s like a little gray linnet, that's what I always think when I see her,” mused Wilfrid, standing in his shirt-sleeves at a discreet distance from the window, and watching the slim figure of the girl in gray as she passed up the shell-strewn path cf the neighboring house. “I wonder what she is doing there? I wonder who she is? I suppose she is a daiiy governeas or something, for she al ways comes at the same hour in the forenoon.” Perhaps he might have easily dis covered much of what he wished to know by questioning the landlady; but Mrs. Hallett was, as he had already discovered, a gossip of the most unqualified kind, and he did not care to show an unwarranted interest in affairs which obviously did not cot cern him. He reflected sometimes with a cer tain cynical amusement upon his interest in the girl, and recalling the frank and candid glance of her lovely gray eyes, wondered if they were as faithless as other eyes into which he had once looked, with ardent faint smiling eyes as blue as the sea. But like the sea, the smile had died out of them when the sky of his fortune had become overclouded, and that dream had faded out of his life. “Gray skies, gray eyes,” he reflect ed. “I won’t say that all women are alike, for the sake of my mother’s memory; but shall not be so easily, deceived again.” With ■which laudable intention he went out for a walk on the Fort and round tha Bantry, returning just in time to meet the gray-eyed girl at the gate. He might have saved himself the trouble, for she never looked at him, but passed indifferent, sweet and serious as usual. Wilfrid went into the garden and strolled round it, switching the dull, pale-fringed leaves from Mrs. HalitlV southernwood borders with some petulance. He heard voices on the other side of the wall, and looked over. Three small children were hard at work making a garden of de capitated dandelions and daisies on the grass. Gfd Saitta “Archie, you isn't putting them straight,” screamed a masterful wee maiden in a brown hotland pinafore. “I’b so! Bella, me hit oo if oo pulls up mine Powers! Me hit oo hard." There seemd an incipient fight. The youngest, a tiny thing in petti coats and a sailor hat tumbling on his fat bare neck, incapable of interfering between (he belligerents, screwed up a round mouth to roar. Wilfrid leaned over the wall, ard jcaught (he small maiden by the pig. | tail. “No fighting, youngsters, if you ! please,” he said. “I can't stand it. j really; my nerves won’t bear it.” The little girl twitched her hair ! away, and the three regarded him j with wide eyes. "I can't stand fighting," said Wilfrid solemnly. "When little boys and girls ' fight I turn into a wolf, a lion, a bear; I jump over the wall and gobble them up. No, don't run away. When little boys and girls are nice to me, I am ! very nice to them. 1 bring them all sorts of good things—nuts and oranges. and sometimes picture books.” “Wants a picky-book!” said the yi.ungest imp, scrambling against the wall and reaching up irresistible arms of entreaty. “You shall have one tomorrow, ’ promised Wilfrid, "if you are good and do not fight nor tease your teacher. ’ “We never teases Miss Rhoda,” said the girl indignantly "We loves Miss Rhoda!" And Archie confirmed tne statement—“lxrves Miss Whoda! Does oo love Miss Whoda. Mr. Man?” “I am going to find your picture books for tomorrow,” said Wilfrid, and retreated, confounded, like many a wise man by the simplicity of chil dren. Next day he paid his tribute due, in the shape the gaudiest picture-books Eyemouth could furnish, and on the next day again (which was Saturday), being encountered by the trio on the sands, they precipitated themselves upon him with shrieks of joy. Wil frid perceived with pleasure, not un mixed with embarrassment, that the young lady in gray was evidently in charge, though she sat on the sands and tried to seem absorbed in her knitting. “Build us a fort, Mr. Man —a high, high fort!” cried Archie. “No, tell us a story,'* said Bella. "Wants gee watch,” said the young est, tugging at his chain. “Let it alone, Teddy. You*ll break the pendasit like Miss Rhoda's. Teddy broke Miss Rhoda’s chain, and she lost her heart.” “And she cwied; Ted cwled too.” added Archie. A sudden guilty pang brought to Wilfrid’s recollection his treasure trove, forgotten until that moment in his waistcoat pocket. "Was it like this?” he said, laying the trinket on the palm of his hand. The children flew to their governess. "Miss Rhoda, Mr. Man has found your heart. Look, he has it.” “I had the fortune to pick this vp at Bummouth,” said Wilfrid, lifting his hat. "I am ashamed to confess that I had forgotten the circum stances; but it gives me great pleasure to restore it to its rightful owner,” “I am very glad to have it again," said the girl simply. “It is not of any great value, but it belonged to my mother. Thank you very much, Mr. “My name is Neuthorn. I happen to be staying next door to these young people—and have made their ac quaintance.” “I go there every day to teach them Teddy, don’t tangle my wool!” Wilfrid refrained from saying that he knew that fact. "May I inquire," lie said politely, "whether you are a resident here or merely a visitor like myself?” “Sometimes between the two,” she said with a surprised little smile. “We have lived here four years— since my father lost his sight. It wus a great misfortune. He was an artist. Perhaps you may have heard his name. Did you ever hear of Charles Cadell?” “Now I understand why so many places here seemed to be familiar. I ( have often seen Mr. CadeU’s coast scenes in the galleries when I was visiting them. I am a journalist, yc-u know. But I did not know that Mr. Cadell was blind. What a terrible trial for him!” “A severe trial, indeed. But —oh, here he comes. He is able, you see, to find his way about although lain generally with him. Father, I have got my heart! This gentleman, Mr. Neuthorn—has found it!” She guided his hand to touch Wil frid’s fingers “Neuthron! Neuthron!” said the blind ar.’ist. “I surely recall the name, Rhoda. Do you remember that Bummer when we went to paint the old oaks at Ridinghouse? Surely the | owner’s name was Neuthorn.” Wilfrid's face clouded. “Sir Christopher Neuthorn was my | uncle,” he said abruptly. “But I have not seen Ridinghouse for years. I ao not suppose I shall ever see it again.” “They were superb woods,' said Mr. Cadell. "Are you going up on the fort, Rhoda?” "I must take the children home. But wait here for me, father. I am afraid when you go there alone.” "I am going up that way,” said Wilfrid. “May 1 walk with you, Mr. Cadell?” “Thank you, Mr. Neuthorn. You'll find us there, Rhoda. It Is nonsense,” he added as Rhoda gathered the chil dren and moved away. “I know all the places as well as our own green. But the child is nervous; she loves me so dearly! she is the comfort of my life and the light of my darkness. Mr. Neuthorn.” "It must be a sore deprivation for you to be shut out from all this beautiful scenery of sea and land ” said Wilfrid as they took the steep cliff path. "I have the picture of it in my heart." replied the blind man cheerily. I have painted so much of ;t from St. Abb's Head to Ross that I know tt all—-every inch. 1 can tell at rhis mo ment, when the sun is shining, how the foam breaks In a fountain of light over the rocks out there in the bay. I know how the opalescent blue swirls into green and purple when tne wave boils through the rocks on the shore below. The sight of my eyes is gone; but the sight of my soul remains.” Wilfrid felt the twinge of shame. Young, strong and free, he had been allowing his disappointments to flil his life with gloom, while this man who had suffered so great a loss was able to draw consolation, and even joy, from memory and fancy. After that day Wilfrid saw much of Mr. Cadell and his daughter. The blind man enjoyed his company. They talked of politics, of literature. and art, of local tradition, and village events. Khoda made a good listener to these conversations. Sometimes she took a shv part In them. and. Wilfrid gradually discovered new depths in her nature. Tender, gentle, and sym pathetic, she had grown to love and understand the fisher folk amongst whom she dwelt; she wept with the the women in their sororws for the boat that never comes home to har bor; she had entered deeply into the life around her, and understood it with the quick intuition of the heart. It was a source of real regret to Wilfrid when ho received a telgram with an imperative summons to re turn to London. He had promised to spend the evening with Mr. Cadell. and went over to apologize for his departure. He found Uhoda alone in the garden of the little house. The doctor had called for Mr. Cadell to drive with him, and they had not re turned. “I am sorry you must go,” she said simply. “My father will miss you ro much." “And you?” “You have been very kind,” she said with downcast eyes. “You will not say that you will miss me? 1 know I shall miss you every day and eyery hour. I cannot go away, Rhoda, unless you give me a hope that I shall return to claim you for my wife.” “I can never leave my father; he needs me so much." “I will make a home for you both. lam not rich, but I can work. Rhoda, I think I gave you my heart with that trinket you w~ar. Have you nothing to give in exchange?" “Perhaps,” she said, bending her face to hide the suffering crimson on her cheeks, “you have taken mine already." CHAPTER 111. 1< was with anew joy and hope* that Wilfrid started on his lan* drive to Berwick, where he hoped to ealeh the express train. Ho smoked in silence, building bright visions, as they flew between shadowy hedges through the sleep-enwrapped country, over which a hidden moon Rhed a faint eloud-flltered radiance. Cross ing Lambert on Moor the horse cast a shoe, and fell lame. The driver abused the smith in good round terms. “It's nae time since the shoon were putten on.” he said. “I wish ye mayna miss the train efter a'. Onyway, there's anither in the moniin’. I’m sure It’s no my blame.” "A few hours can’t make so much difference.” said Wilfrid good natu redly. The foreboding proved true. When they drove up to the castellated station they were informed that the express was gone. Wilfrid ascertain ed the hour of the next fast train, compared his watch with the station clock, and sauntered down to the hanks of the river to while away the time. The sky had blown almost clear. The moon rode white above In a faint misty circle, and the stars were luminous around her. The deep river, full with a turning tide, sang melodiously. Wilfrid leaned on the wall and watched the lights of heaven sparkle on Its little hurrying ripples. Suddenly, and at a Iltle distance, there was a splash—a cry—the star shine and moonbeams flickered into circles. "Good heavens!” exclaimed Wilfrid, “there is someone in the river.” He flung off his coat, and the next mo ment felt the cold grin of the current as ho struck out for something that rooe and sank and rose again. It was a harder task to get the heavy, un conscious burden to land. But there was help at hand. Some water baillfTs close by had head the scream, and soon Wilfrid found himself stand ing on the hank looking down at a • pale, bruised face, which seemed strangely familiar. One of them tore open the man’s coat —he wore neither waistcoat nor shirt, and knelt to listen for a heart beat. "Ay, he’s livin’,” he said. "Is there ony brandy? Get a doctor, some o’ ye! Mather Is the nearest.” “Who is he?” questioned Neu thorn. “Some tramp by his look.” was the answer, as the man proffered his flask. “Take a nip, sir; yell get cauld.” “No. thanks!” said Wllfdld. ”But if the doctor were come I’ll go to a hotel and get my clothes dried. You’ll see after the poor fellow, and if I I can do anything further let me know in the morning.” he said to the medl-1 cal man, who at this moment made, his appearance. "My name is Neu thorn. 1 am going to the Chatsworth hotel. 1 shall bo leaving for tomorrow. but I must, be content, l fear, to postpone the journey for sn hour or two. And. doctor.” he added in a lower tone, "if you learn his name, will you let me know? I seem to recognize his face, although I do not remember where 1 have seen it.” Next morning, as he left the hotel. Wilfrid met the doctor. “I was just In search of you,” said l>r. Mather. “How is your drowned man this morning?'’ "Oh, bad. The fact is, he's dyiug, I fear." "Is that so?" “Are you nothing the worse for the plunge?" "Not a particle. Dying? But surely that could not —” "It has merely accelerated the end. Starvation and an old standing heart trouble are the main things. And, by Lie way. Mr. Neuthorn, I think you must be right In supposing that you have seen him previously. Ho got terribly excited when he heard your name; he has been asking for yon ever since." “Strange! I suppose I ought to go and see him." “It would be a charity. I hoped you would come.” Wilfrid accompanied the doctor to the infirmary. The dying man lay sunk on the pillow, his eyes closed, his face, already pinched and drawn, had the pallor of death. "Wo had better not disturb hint ” said Wilfrid in a low tone. But the heavy eyes opened; he turned, and tried to rise. "You don't know me, Mr. Neuthon, ? You did not expect to see Fred Hamil ton in this plight.” “No. certainly! How on earth did you come to this?” “My own fault. Wo won't speak of that," he returned In a hoarse whisper. "I have so much to say—so little time. I did you a great wrong.” “You never did me any wrong that I knew.” “Ah,” he said with a gasp. Then after a moment's silence. "Your uncle. Sir Christopher, the day of his seizure, he came to our office to make another will to restore you as his heir. My partner was out. I drew the will. Mr. Neuthorn, I suppressed that will.” "Why should you have done that?" asked Wilfrid, startled, "You will think it mockery, but I loved Florence Rattray." “Lady Penwilllam?" I “She would never h ive been Indy Pen william if you could have made her mistress of Ridinghouse. Yes; I know that she would not have looked at a poor man—but 1 hoped to be rich —I was speculating—l lost all —my own and the money of others. I have been in prison, Mr. Neat horn—and now you see where drink and despair have brought me ’’ “Did you destroy (hat will?” ”1 kept it. You will find it in the library of the old house. There is a secret panel—but tear down the wainscot, I have not strength to tell you more. I can’t ask you to forgive me. The wrong Is Irreparable ’’ He sank wearily back. “But I do forgive you, Hamilton.” said Wilfrid earnestly, taking his fevered hand, “as I hope we shall both he forgiven. The wrong Is not so great as you think. I am glad to know that Hlr. Christopher repented of his Injustice In disinheriting mo because l would not marry as he pleased. But for the rest —well, I ha> o .eve l :ny apprenticeship In the world and I have learned many things, none more valuable than the difference between the false love and the true. I have lost nothing, but gained much, and I forgive you from my heart.” Hamilton’s lips moved, but his eyes did not open. Dr. Mather touched Wilfrld’r, arm “Better come sway now,” he said. “No chance?” asked Wilfrid as they went. out. into the flooding sunlight. . “It Is a matter of a few hours.” “There Is my card. You can send me a wire. 1 will see to the—to what Is necessary. Poor fellow! Good-bye. I must go to the station at. once.” And while the thundering express carried him southward the tide of Fred Hamilton’s ruined life was ebbing out to the great deep from which It came. But when the old oaks of Riding house clothed themselves In the bridal Rnosv of Christmas, a bride as fair and pure as the snow came borne to reign amongst them and In the hcrt of their master "until death them do part.” CHRISTMAS MUSINGB. The Christmas shopper’s not content To visit just a shop or two; On seeing everything she’s bent Until she’s broke, and then she’s through. —Philadelphia Record. Hope springs eternal In the hamaa breast; Wherefore it Is each year We vainly dream that things we truly need A Christmas will appear. —Chicago Journal. Now comes the season of unrest. When many a generous soul will sigh And wish she hail begun her quest For Christmas presents last July. —Washington Star. Michigan University has 30 societies and organizations connected with It.